


Mark me down as a 'no'

by friendlydeathray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Poisoning, Alcohol Withdrawal, Alcoholic Dean, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Mark of Cain, Season 9, Suicidal Thoughts, alcoholic liver disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:35:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlydeathray/pseuds/friendlydeathray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during season 9 (reference to/spoilers for Mark of Cain) - Dean's alcoholism finally catches up to him, he is told he has alcoholic liver disease and needs to quit drinking, but he doesn't want Sam to know. Dean wants to prove to himself that he can quit because if he can't fight this addiction then how can fight the desire for the blade? But things don't go as planned and Sammy has to step up and show his brother that he does still care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write this fic for the addict parallels between the MoC and Deans drinking but mainly because I get so annoyed about how the show has glossed over/ignored Dean's alcoholism for yearsss - as someone who has struggled with it myself it is SUPER obvious to me that he is an alcoholic and bad enough of one that he would actually be feeling the side effects by now and that he would be seriously ill when he quits - so yes if you like some season 9 angsty Dean and Hurt/comfort you are in the right place! enjoy :)

Sam was hunched at the end of the long table, surrounded by pieces of paper and manila folders from the Men of Letters file room, shuffling and huffing and pushing his hair behind his ears constantly. Dean was staring at him from the other side of the table. His mind was doing the thing it had been doing lately where it felt saturated rotten with black, thick sludge and everything slowed down with an agonizing weight as he felt the brand on his arm pulse with incongruous fear and desire….

 

Actually, talking about desire… He turned towards his duffle bag sitting on the seat next to him, where he knew a brand new, full bottle of whisky was stashed. He wasn’t hiding the bottles because he felt guilty about how much he was drinking. He was hiding them so that Sam wouldn’t feel obliged to ask him if he was ok. He didn’t really care if Sam secretly knew; he just cared if _he_ knew that Sam knew… if that makes sense. See the real problem was that deep down he worried that Sam _wouldn’t_ push to find out if he was ok, or even worse than that, that he would feel _obliged_ to ask, which isn’t really the same thing as caring. _We’re not supposed to be brothers anymore, remember?_

 

He wasn’t sure exactly how much he was drinking anymore; it didn’t really matter, he just drunk when he felt like it and then again in the evening until he fell asleep, as he had always done. But the amount that it took had just increased over time. A whole bottle of whisky today, 8 beers, two shots and three fingers the next, it just depended on the day. He knew it was probably starting to affect his body by now but the Winchesters had always had a bad habit of laughing in the face of death. And when he looked down at the raised, red mark on his forearm, like an angry, red brand, he knew he wouldn’t live long enough to have to worry about a failing liver anyway.

 

 “Dean your hands are shaking,” Sam said. The piece of paper Dean was holding up in front of him was trembling violently. He slammed it down on the table in defiance against his own body giving away his subterfuge.

“I uh… I just haven’t eaten yet today,” he stammered. He pushed his chair back with a loud scrape, “gonna get some grub.”

Sam nodded and watched Dean stumbled towards the kitchen. Dean was not nearly as good at lying as he thought he was, they had spent enough time in close quarters together (and shared enough lies) to know each others tells. But Sam was trying to make Dean think he didn’t care. He was angry with him, furious in fact, and he didn’t want to give Dean the satisfaction of addressing the issue. After all these years he had finally figured out that the best way to punish Dean was to make him think he didn’t care enough even to get mad at him. This technique extended to also pretending he didn’t care enough to ask him if he was ok. So he had to develop new, subtle ways of checking on him without coming across like ‘old Sam’, Sam who _needed_ Dean to be ok. Instead of badgering him about talking things out like old Sam would, now he would just call to ask (all indifferently) how research was going in order to assure that Dean was still where he left him last and that he was still vertical. He pretended he didn’t hear the clinking glass sounds that came from his duffle or the constantly refreshed supply of empties in the trash or the stench of whisky on his breath… or even the shaking hands in the mornings. Even though Dean had a problem with drinking for years Sam knew that each spike in intensity had a correlating emotional trigger and if Dean knew he cared about his drinking then he would think Sam wasn’t totally fuming about the trigger. So he decided to carry on pretending and carry on with his secret checks.

 

He got up and strode towards the kitchen. He could hear Dean opening and closing the cupboards frantically.

 

Dean rummaged around in the cupboards looking for what he needed, and he wasn’t sure it was food. His appetite had been non-existent of late. He was too tired to sleep and then too tired to eat and when he tried to his stomach felt like it was flipping inside out anyway so what was the point. The only way to feel better was to sleep and the only way to sleep was to drink. In the back of the cupboard above the sink he reached in for the large bottle of Jack that was hidden in the back like a frightened captive. Even though it still felt like drinking petrol as it burnt its way down his esophagus, he didn’t wince anymore. He knew that once it sat in his stomach for a moment, everything would start feeling a bit better. It’s a weird thing really - the contradictory nature of alcohol. All at once it feels incredibly shit and yet incredibly amazing. As he threw back a third glass he caught a glimpse of the red mark newly adorning his arm and laughed bitterly at its own contradictory nature – the terrible, horrific, yet amazing feeling of holding the blade. He coughed down a fourth glass.

 

Sam had slowed his pace as he approached the kitchen door and then paused just before the opening so that he could focus on listening. He could hear the distinct clank of glass and the tell tale sigh of a painful gulp of straight liquor. Sam looked at his watch, _11:00 am..._ Breakfast of champions, he thought bitterly. Sam waited for Dean to tighten the lid of the bottle and listened for the shut of the cupboard again before making his entrance.

Dean gasped, “Shit, don’t go creepin’ around like that”

Sam shot him a questioning look as if to highlight his ignorance of what Dean had just been doing. Dean let out a ragged breath and thanked Obama that Sam hadn’t come in just seconds earlier.

“I’m kinda hungry myself,” Sam said, even though he wasn’t, “I’m gonna whip up some eggs – I’ve got to use the rest of them before they go off so don’t worry about making anything.” He had to get something in Dean’s stomach other than whisky but he wasn’t about to tell him that out right.

Dean nodded. Sam felt quite satisfied with his nonchalance – such was the way he now was able to simultaneously punish Dean and take care of him. He grinned silently to himself as he searched for a pan.

 

Sam pushed the eggs around the pan until they scrambled as Dean sat in the corner, rubbing his face and then his arm alternately. Sam dropped the plate of eggs in front of Dean and then took his own serving back out to the library. He was getting surprisingly good at keeping things frosty between them… he was starting to worry that he would become _so_ good at it that he would forget how to go back.

 

Dean looked at the huge pile of yellow mush in front of him for so long he was sure that it would be cold before it ever touched his mouth. He finally gave in to the instinct that told him he should really eat something and tried a mouthful. He chewed it slowly fighting the urge to gag and drool it out. He swallowed it like a mouthful of rusty nails and then dropped the fork,

“Oh hell no” he muttered as he pushed it away. Instead he sat in silence staring at the doorway like he could see a ghost of Sam’s presence and nodded to himself as if to say, _you deserve it, you stupid ass._

“Fuck it” he said as his stood from his seat and patted his back pocket for the Impala keys.

As he passed Sam on the way to the garage, Sam yelled, “Where you going?”

“Supply run” Dean shot back, “you said where out of eggs right?”

Sam didn’t push any further; Dean was gone too quick anyway. He rolled his eyes and went back to the kitchen to take his plate. Still sitting on the counter were Dean’s barely touched eggs.

“Shit,” Sam whispered.

 

 

Dean took the Impala even though he knew he was already too sauced to drive and would only get worse, he reckoned he’d figure something out…. Maybe he’d pick up some midday drinking chick, go back with her and come pick up the car later. Not that he was bothered with sex that much anymore. He stopped at the first dive bar he could find. It was dark and empty save a handful of pathetic souls riding the bar stools like lovers. Dean leant over the bar and was pleased to see that the bartender was a pretty girl in her late twenties with a tight arse like a peach.

“’Scuse me miss” he drawled, tapping twice on the bar with his knuckles, “Whisky, neat… make it a double”

“No problem” she smiled as she turned and bent over to put away her wash cloth, purposefully showing her perfect round rump stretching into her tight jeans. Dean sighed.

“Rough day?” she asked as placed the glass in front of him.

“One of many” he muttered, gesturing for another already.

She considered him for a moment as he watched her pour another glass enthralled by the anticipation, “This is probably a weird question but are you a vet?” she asked when she returned with the whole bottle, “my old boyfriend had two tours and he had the same face.” The question was one he had heard many times before, (usually followed by “where’d you serve?” _hell_ ) but it was being asked more and more recently. He wondered if he really looked _that_ war weary.

“Yeah uh you could say that” he said, he ran his hand down his face and let out a bitter, melancholy laugh, which made the girl step back and turn away from him to tend on her other customers who didn’t need anything anyway. _You deserve everything that’s coming to you,_ he thought as he watched her face change from interested to nervous. It was a change in expression that he was _also_ seeing more and more of recently. He rubbed the burning scar on his arm and pressed his eyes shut against the memories of the primal evil coursing through him as he held the blade _._ He could feel his foot holds onto life pulling out from under him as the goodness drained out of him. _You piece of shit,_ he thought, _you savage fucking dog, you need to be put down._

A blur of shots later he staggered to the toilet clutching his stomach. It felt like he’d drunk a tub of acid, like his internal organs were being ripped apart, like Alistair with his favourite razor slicing out each organ before cramming them down Dean’s throat.

“Ahh fuck” he growled as he sunk to his knees by the toilet – the cold, white face that welcomed him with its mocking, open-mouthed grin. He could already smell the bile before he coughed it up with loud, ungraceful gags. What he didn’t expect was that it smelt coppery. He opened his eyes, which had been squeezed shut in a grimace, and stared into the toilet. The last thing he remembered was the distinctly familiar yet out of place, sight of blood.

 

Yelling. People were frantically yelling things around him blaring sounds like shards of glass in his eardrums. He was facing upwards and moving, which felt weird and his head was spinning red, blue, red, blue. Then flashes of ceiling lights, those long fluorescent ones that are only ever in official type places, were searing through his state of semi-consciousness. Faces of people he didn't recognize hovered over him talking like they were under water. Then his chest tightened with an awful cramping, burning pain in time to robotic screaming coming from something close to him. The rest was blackness.  

 

He blinked his eyes open, slowly adjusting to whiteness of the room. _Am I dead?_ He thought for a moment, but the familiar scratchiness of the hospital sheets told him otherwise.

“No, you’re fine” a voice replied. A tiny nurse was standing beside him adjusting his IV. She was old and mousy; she almost looked like a spirit.

 _“_ Did I say that out loud?” he said.

“mmhmm” she replied, “the doctors gonna wanna talk to you son, so wait right here”

He contemplated escape but the doctor arrived too quickly to execute any of the viable routes out that he had formulated.

“How are you feeling?” the man asked, he looked as though he had noticed Dean was tensed up in a position that suggested he was about to attempt escape. He smiled knowingly, making a pair of dimples appear beneath his speckled stubble. He picked up the chart at the end of the bed as Dean read his nametag, _Doctor Epstein._

“Whuh… what happened?” Dean asked. He kinda knew what happened.

“You were found passed out in the toilet of a bar… you had severe alcohol poisoning so we had to pump your stomach” he nodded trying to gage Dean’s response, so far he looked like he knew that part already, “how many drinks do you ordinarily have in a week and when you do drink how many do you have in any one sitting?” the doctor asked.

Dean glared at him suspiciously, “I dunno doc does is matter?” he muttered.

“It certainly does I’m afraid…” The doctor kept pressing, assuring him that an accurate alcohol intake evaluation was literally a life or death matter. Dean felt sorry for the poor guy trying so hard to help him, so he gave in and told him the truth (it wasn’t like it made much of a difference anyway). He answered the probing questions delicately but truthfully – that yes alcohol abuse _did_ run in the family (the stench of dad’s whisky breath was all too fresh in his memory), yesmany people have already voiced concern about his drinking habits, he told him that he had been drinking since he was 17 then it escalated after he got out of hell (he evaded that detail of course) to having 50-60 drinks a week, which had progressively gotten worse in the past four years to a point at which now he couldn’t even keep track of how much he was drinking.

The doctor did another of his knowing nods and frowned at him with his deep-set eyes as though he was reading his thoughts, “Alright well that definitely aligns with our findings,” he said, Dean looked at him questioningly, “while you were out we carried out a number of tests…” the doctor explained.

Dean scowled, he hated the idea of people prodding and pocking at him without him knowing.

“You have alcoholic liver disease” the doctor added casually, “So what you are drinking has to be too much, too often and for far too long”. He let a moment of uncomfortable silence drift between them for added emphasis.

“Uh right ok what does that alcoholic liver disease thing mean?” Dean said finally.

“It means that you have damaged your liver through long term alcohol abuse to the point at which it has become inflamed… you might have found that you feel nauseous, that your appetite has decreased, that you have pain in the abdomen, bleeding from your esophagus, fatigue, depression” he paused, “we have you hooked up to an IV with a vitamin B-complex and folic acid to help with your strength but really the only viable option for treatment is for you to desist drinking all together.”

“Mhmm right-o doc I’ll do just that, you gonna let me leave now?” Dean snapped with transparent sarcasm almost before the doctor had finished his sentence.

“Listen, you are already showing early stage liver cirrhosis and if you continue drinking… ok I am not going to be delicate about it - it is very likely that you will die… painfully might I add, in the near future… so it is my recommendation that you enter into a residential treatment program…”

“Nope, no way in hell am I gonna be Sigmund Freuded by you pill pushing ass-hats, uh-uh,” Dean was preparing himself to make a quick exit but the doctor was staring at him so earnestly that it actually rather frightened him.

“Mr. Smith, Cirrhosis is irreversible… but luckily we’ve caught it so early on so if you were to stop drinking right away you would have an excellent prognosis… But if you let it get far enough along you will be very sick, unable to function, jaundiced” he paused, “… some patients even have their legs amputated”

“Ok, ok I get it” Dean said. He _wanted_ to say, _It doesn’t matter anyway, I’m dead soon either way_ , but he knew that would just land him with a suicide watch and psych eval. He coughed out a laugh; _maybe you do need a goddamn psych evaluation_.

“It’s fine I can do it myself,” he said

The doctor shook his head and let out a sharp exhalation of breath that signified his exasperation with his cause, he knew that addicts couldn’t (and wouldn’t) quit on their own, “Mr Smith, even if you _were_ able to quit on your own, you need support and what’s more than that, you could actually die during the withdrawal from the DT’s and related seizures,” Dean nodded and gave the doctor a half smile, “… but I’m not shocking you with that though am I? This is not the first time you’ve heard this I gather” the doctor said slowly.

“No, ‘fraid not…” Dean muttered. He remembered after the first few weeks with Lisa she had forced him to see a doctor who recommended he stop drinking. But Dean had opted for the ‘I’ll just cut down’ option instead, despite Lisa’s pleading. He had heard a similar speech about DT’s then too… the alcoholic liver thing was new though.

 

Dean checked out of the hospital _‘against medical advice’_ (who cares?) and staggered out to find a taxi to take him back to where he parked the Impala. The whole drive back to the bunker he fingered the pile of pamphlets about withdrawal that the doctor had forced on him. At the traffic lights he stared at his other arm, which was controlling the wheel, the mark exposed by his rolled up sleeve. _Drop the blade Dean! Dean!_ He could still hear the fear in Sam’s voice ringing in his ears. It had taken all of his control to concentrate on what Sam was saying and then even more to actually act on it. The surge of power that had thundered through him was intoxicating, so much so that it was terrifying; enough that he could force himself to let go… this time.

 

 _You’re scared._ Dean cleared his throat distractedly, his mouth bone dry and closing over. _Takes a junkie to know a junkie._ Now this was true in more ways than one. He grimaced at the thought. _You’re weak Dean, pathetic, can’t even control yourself._ He glared at the burning mark and then at the pile of pamphlets and then at his shaking hands. His breath was becoming ragged. He ground his teeth furiously as he listened to his heavy heartbeat, like a blood drum beat in his ears. If he couldn’t stop drinking how the hell was he going to resist the urge to pick up the blade? No, no way was Dean Winchester so weak. This was a test. This was a way to prove to himself that he wasn’t afraid, that he wasn’t _stalling because he was scared._ This was the only way he could prove to himself that he could control himself.


	2. Chapter 2

"Where the hell have you been?" Sam barked. He was still sitting in the library as though he hadn't moved for the past however many hours.

"Hmm? Whuuh?" Dean garbled, his brain was already starting to fog.

"Where'd you go?"

"Where do you think?" he replied rubbing his hand across his brow. He stood just below the entrance to the library looking slightly upwards to where Sam was sitting at the end of the reading table, still surrounded by piles of books and papers.

"Ah right, I won't ask," Sam nodded clearly assuming Dean had spent the night with a woman. Dean wanted to laugh at the irony of that as he thought of the pretty bar tender's face recoiling in dread.

"Have you eaten?" Sam asked innocuously.

"No," Dean snapped, his voice was rumbling, suddenly angry, "Don't know why you're so obsessed with making me eat lately" he turned to leave.

"I'm… I'm not" Sam sighed, "Just checking in Dean, no big deal… just being a normal human being"

"Mhmm right well take that normal human being crap the hell away from me and stop asking if I'm ok or if I've eaten" he snarled from over his shoulder, "I can figure out when my own goddamn stomach is growlin'"

"Right, ok" Sam said in a clipped, annoyed tone. He was used to Dean being belligerent and dejected lately. Dean's inability to hold back petty irritability was generally saved for the worst days.

"m'goin' to bed" Dean said as he stormed towards his bedroom. Sam seemed to take no real notice of Dean's spasmodic gait from his seat in the library and just nodded as if I was totally ordinary for Dean to go to bed at this time of day. But once Dean was out of sight Sam's gaze stayed in the direction he'd left as his thoughts lingered in a state of unease.

Dean walked with his hands trailing along the walls all the way to his bedroom. His stride felt jerky and weird like his body was moving a few moments behind his brain. He jumped at the sound of his door slamming behind him and then busied himself with finding all his stashed bottles before he lost his nerve to go through with it.  _Don't be a pussy Winchester, if you can't suppress this pathetic little craving then that Blade is definitely gonna swallow you whole._ Luckily he didn't have too much booze in his room, he was due for a supply run anyway. One by one he poured what he did have down the sink, the familiar smell, taunting him gently like the perfume of a former lover. He smashed the bottles in the bin under the basin and then let himself flop lifelessly onto his bed. He laid there grumpily for a few moments face down feeling the weight of his body force his cheek into the memory foam, before groping blind for his headphones. Zep's ' _I can't quit you babe'_ warbled melancholy into his ears as he attempted to drown out the sound of his own voice whispering,  _fuck, you really are pathetic._ He rolled over and closed his eyes.

He decided he was going to leave himself locked in his room until the worst was over. Dean wouldn't have to look at his brother's face and register the anger that had replaced concern, he wouldn't have to see how much his brother resented his weakness and always had, how pathetic Sam thought he was, how  _selfish_  Sam thought he was. No, Sam wouldn't take this situation well; this would be just another disappointment, one drop too many in an overfilling cup. When he opened his eyes again it was to the horrific sensation of bone deep shuddering. He could feel it reverberating in his stomach making it flip violently against his lungs. He lifted his hands to look at them. Their vicious shaking made him think of those old people who spill their soup all over themselves. He shoved them under his armpits in an attempt to stop them but he could still feel them shaking.  _You're dying you idiot, you're fucking dying,_ the voice scowled. Dean wondered why the hell he was thinking that? He knew he wasn't dying.  _You deserve it,_ it continued on a loop. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep but every time he did, a wave of his greatest horrors came flooding in. Some he hadn't seen in years. He tried to sleep despite it but he kept waking with a fright at the feeling that his heart was stopping. It felt like it was beating irregularly, palpitating... but he couldn't be entirely sure it wasn't just his imagination as it was accompanied by the familiar sensation of anxiety roaring up from his stomach. He released a series of  _fucks_  in long, growling syllables and tried to sleep.

_Oh fucking, fuck, you piece of shit, fuck, why._

He passed out in short intervals of sleep before being woken by his palpitating body or by the jump scare of a nightmare. As the hours passed, he woke up drenched in a layer of slimy sweat, his clothes were soaked through and his skin was leaving a damp impression on the sheets. He had never felt so spaced out in his life… disorientation, delirium. Bugs were crawling under the skin on his forearms. He lifted them in front of his eyes and tried to see if he could actually see them moving about under the membrane of pathetic flesh. He wanted to rip all his skin off. The thought sent another wave of nausea; he smelt the stench of flayed flesh, the wet flap, Alistair's self satisfied cackle as he shaved off the very last piece of Dean's skin. It wasn't until the image of  _himself_ doing the same to many a nameless soul ravaged his memory that he actually threw up. Grabbing for his bin he gagged and wretched but nothing came up.  _Why am I doing this?_ He wondered, suddenly his task of proving he was able to control an addiction seemed pointless.  _I'm already a monster,_ he thought,  _the blade is just going to confirm that soon enough_ , there was no need to fear what it would do to him because his soul was already nothing more than a black smudge. He pulled himself back up onto the bed.  _No, you piece of shit, get your head together… you gonna disappoint Sammy again?_ he reprimanded himself. Suddenly a wave of pain hit him head on, he breathed loudly in through his nose and out through his mouth, attempting to calm the pain, but it was relentless. The intensity of the shaking seemed to spike violently and Dean's muscles seized up in pain against it. He wondered if that was a miniature seizure.  _You're going to die Dean,_ his own voice whispered,  _and Sam isn't going to care._

 _"OH FUCKING CHRIST!"_ he barked, "no, no, no." Dean pushed himself from the bed and smashed across the room, fumbling with the lock on his door. He couldn't do it, he needed a drink, ' _shit I didn't realize I was so goddamn pathetic'_ he thought. He stumbled towards the kitchen groaning and swearing. He was actually surprised to find that his mind was rather quiet of the usual self loathing reprimands, instead it had retreated to a base state of self-preservation –the same state of mind that occurs when you are just desperate for the toilet or for a drink of water when your dehydrated, it is a primal, singular focus. So, as he smashed through the cupboards of the kitchen to find that old bottle of Jack, not a thought was going through his mind other than obtaining his target.

The bottle of Jack was empty.

_Fucking, Shit._

Sam woke with a start to the sound of yelling and clattering.

" _DEAN!"_ he shouted instinctively, he kicked off his sheets and swiped the gun from his bedside table. Dean had gone to bed when he got home at 10 the previous morning and now Sam's watch read 8 am. Sam's first instinct was to prepare for a fight, but a little voice reminded him it was probably just Dean having a particularly bad nightmare. He followed the sound of groaning to the kitchen. He gingerly opened the door with one hand, the other clutching his gun. Sam did not expect to see the horrific scene that met him once Dean was revealed… a  _different_ kind of horrific maybe, but Dean collapsed on the floor drenched in seat convulsing in a painful, violent tremor, and the room stinking of vomit and body heat, was not what he expected. Sam dropped the gun and dashed towards his brother.

 _"Oh god, my stomach"_ Dean cried, it wasn't really just his stomach though, it was  _everywhere_ , a dull, throbbing ache.

"Dean?  _Dean_ can you hear me? Are you ok?" he said, crouching beside him, his nonchalant act flying right out the window along with any and all emotion other than fear. Dean was lying on his side huddled in on himself. Sam clutched Dean's shoulder and shook him. Dean's eyes were glassy like a taxidermy animal.

"Goddamn it _,"_ Sam shouted, "Dean?" his voice was warbling under his stressed tone. He didn't know what to do. The shaking sped up and seemed to go deeper than before, even his teeth were chattering now, until finally his body tensed up aggressively and then released into a series of whole body shakes. It was not just a tremor anymore it was something like a seizure.

"Oh my god, Dean,  _Dean!_ " Sam tried to grab his attention, as he moved him into a safe position, "you're having a seizure." Sam had no idea what was going on.  _How did he not know what was going on!?_ He cast his eyes around the room frantically for clues. ' _Hex bag? Some sort of supernatural sickness?_ ' He thought instinctively. Dean could have been attacked while he was out last night, who knows where he went or what he did or  _who_  he met. But then he noticed something under the table. Never removing his touch from Dean's chest, he reached with his other hand for it... an e _mpty bottle of Jack Daniels._ Sam wasn't sure if the sickness was a result of Dean having just polished the bottle off or a result of the bottle being empty but either way it wasn't anything supernatural.

"n-no, no…. NO!" Dean murmured, Sam turned back to him and pinned him from flailing wildly. He was definitely awake but seemed totally unaware of where he was.

"It's ok, it's ok, you're safe, I'm here," Sam said, he knew if Dean was at all aware of his surroundings he would have been able to detect the hesitation and doubt in Sam's voice.

"We gotta get you to the hospital man, I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry Dean" Sam cried as he heaved his brother up and staggered towards the door. He didn't know what he was saying sorry for, then he realized that it was a last ditch, knee jerk goodbye reaction – he didn't know what could happen and he couldn't leave it unsaid.

Sam bundled Dean into the Impala and sped away from the bunker with his brother shuddering against his shoulder.

"It's ok, right buddy? You're gonna be just fine, come on now" he said, almost to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbc...... mwhahhaha


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: May be some triggering material in this chapter. Probably darker than the last two, I dunno I can't tell anymore :/

Sam's imposing body seemed to fill the entirety of the ER as he shouted for someone to tell him what was going on.

"Sir you need to calm down," a kind faced young nurse said, her hands help up in a stop position, "Please just let the doctors stabilise him and then you will be allowed in… until then why don't you just have a seat"

Sam nodded but continued his levying pacing and teeth grinding.

"Sir, really, I think you should sit," the nurse said placing one hand on Sam's back and the other outstretched, gesturing to a row of empty plastic seats against the wall. Sam followed her movement and took the seat. But he couldn't stop moving positions where he sat. For a moment he was with his head against his hands and his elbows on his knees, then sat back with his hands in his hair then forwards again, then in the middle biting his nails. He strained to hear or see what was happening but it was impossible. Instead he took in the sounds of every other person in the hospital around him, as though they were all Dean. The horrific screeching of a heart monitor, the crying, the shuddering and shuffling, the calming down by nurses, the clattering of metallic equipment. It was a battlefield of sensory assaults that Sam subconsciously was linking to Dean's current state, as though it was  _Dean's_ heart monitor screeching,  _Dean_ crying and shuddering,  _Dean_ dying.

 _"Please be ok, please be ok, please be ok,"_ he muttered to himself. Sam sat in those stupid plastic seats for far too long. He had rubbed his hands down his face, pinched the bridge of his nose and pressed his brows far too many times for one night. When a doctor finally approached Sam jumped from the seat to greet him.

"Hi, you must be Dean's brother? I'm doctor Epst…"

"Is he ok?" Sam cut him off.

"Uh well yes, we will just give him some medication, hang a banana bag and monitor him through the rest of it - he's probably through the worst of it already," he reassured him, "lucky you brought him in when you did"

"Worst of  _what?"_ Sam snapped.

The doctor paused mid inhalation of breath, "uh? Are you not aware that your brother was under going alcohol withdrawal?"

Sam jut his head forward with a slight squint, "What? … no, no I wasn't… Like I told you when I brought him in, I found him on he floor seizing up with an empty bottle of Jack near him… I thought he'd OD'ed or something…" his voiced sounded airy and unusually quiet.

"No actually I think that empty bottle may have been the problem…" the doctor registered Sam's confusion, "See, alcohol detox is actually the most dangerous withdrawal… under no circumstances would we recommend it to be undertaken alone or without medical supervision, but when your brother came in the night before last he was adamant about doing it himself, there was nothing I could do"

Sam let out a bitter, sad laugh; "uh ha-ha, he came in the night before last did he?" he nodded as if to say  _yeah that'd be right._

"Yes, he had alcohol poisoning so we pumped his stomach and ran some tests… we found that he has alcoholic liver disease which is why I told him he had to quit drinking," the doctor said, he was careful to be gentle with his tone and simple with his words as Sam looked like he was about to cry (a weird sort of angry cry, the doctor noticed).

"He will need to stay here for the next couple of days at least as we now need to monitor him for DT's and cardiovascular distress, the detox process can drag on quite dangerously I'm afraid" the doctor said, "I'll come talk to you both about longer-term treatment options once he is feeling better." Sam nodded and let the doctor leave. He didn't want to hear more anyway.

Dean was lying asleep in the hospital bed, a deflated flesh balloon in hospital pyjamas. Sam shuffled to the seat beside the bed and watched his brother breathing, sleeping.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

All hospitals do is highlight mortality. What if he  _had_ died? Sam had always thought that whenever one of them died there would be some big dramatic build up and it would be predictable, easier to accept, but this had reminded him that they weren't superheroes; they were real people who could die at any minute. He thought of everything he had said to Dean, how much he chastised him for doing whatever it took to bring him back and he knew he couldn't keep pretending that he wouldn't do they same for Dean.

"S'mmy?" Dean grumbled, "whus 'appened?"

"You were delirious and having seizures" Sam whispered.

"Mmm," Dean was groggy and distracted by his still shaking hands and legs, the immense pain in his head and stomach that was simmering beneath the drugs and the remaining shimmer of sweat.

Sam nodded his head down at the sight of Dean's uncontrollable hands and said, "Why didn't you tell me you're sick?" As soon as he asked he already knew the answer.

"Doesn't matter anyway does it?" Dean attempted one of his devil-may-care smiles but it fell flat. Sam stared at him, Dean looked defeated, "Can't stave off the booze monster… how the hell can I expect to fight the pull of that blade either? It's a hundred times worse," he slurred.

Sam didn't know what to say, Dean was right.

Dean fell back into another groggy bought of sleep for a few hours, Sam stayed up watching Dean's fitful sleeping until finally he too succumbed to sleep.

Dean felt wrong. He wasn't even entirely sure where he was. He was asleep surely but it felt weird,  _wrong._ The drugs didn't stop the nightmares they just made the sleep deeper, which only made it worse. Instead of having to coming up through only a few shallow meters of dream he was now catapulted into the ocean depths where the crushing opposing pressure made resurfacing hard. When waking up is hard it makes the nightmares feel more real. Searing, red hot pain hit him in the stomach, he looked up to see Alistair standing over him with a fist full of Dean's internal organs. Dean was lying prostrate on Alistair's rack with his arms and legs pinned, he screamed for Sam.  _He can't hear you Dean,_ Alistair taunted.

Sam was woken by a jolt and a grumbling shout. Dean was covered in sweat and writhing, the sheets were tangled and stuck to him as he moved. The sight was not an unusual one for Sam, since Dean had returned from Hell he suffered with PTSD nightmares and Sam had come to know what to do. So he did now what he always did, he reached out his hand and touched Dean's arm, calling his name repeatedly and still allowing Dean to maintain some remnants of dignity when he finally awoke. But when Dean didn't respond, Sam's face darkened.

"Dean? Dean wake up you're just having a nightmare… You are in the hospital in Lebanon, Kansas remember? You're here" Sam tried to think of anything that would anchor Dean in the real world.

"Dean?" he shouted but to no response _, "NURSE!"_

Dean was sure that Sam could hear him; he had years of practice with these dreams to know that they weren't real, that all he had to do was wake up.  _This isn't a dream Dean,_ Alistair whispered into his ear, his breath was hot against his skin and he could almost feel the prickle of his stubble making him sick with memories of humiliating, dehumanizing penetration.  _Does it feel like a dream Dean? Hmm? Whether or not it is happening right now doesn't matter, the fact is it DID happen, and that makes it as real as anything else._ Dean wasn't in control of his dream-self; it was as though he was trapped inside his own body watching himself, like a live action replay of a memory. He remembered this day. He had stopped crying a long time ago, he had gone cold faced and blank, a deep emptiness filled him. Everyday Alistair made him the same offer to take him off the rack in exchange for his services as a torturer, but this was the day that Dean finally agreed.  _Yes,_ his voice was low and broken. Alistair held out a knife, Dean closed his eyes and held it... but it didn't feel like the knife he was used to in this memory? Nevertheless he started hacking into a woman, her howling cries curling through the suffocating humidity of the room. He felt good. He felt vindicated. He slashed into her flesh with unbridled ferocity as he too screamed and grunted in time to his swings, placing the pain on someone else, dishing out what he had so long endured.

 _"Dean!"_ the sound of Sam's voice stopped him cold.

"Sam?" he whispered to no one. Screams were echoing through him as he looked down at the knife still in his hand, dripping with blood. His breath hitched when he saw it. It was  _the_  blade.

_I've got to wake up._

Dean did wake up from the nightmare but he did  _not_ wake into lucidity.

"Dean? You're ok," a nurse cooed. For a moment he seemed fine, but as the seconds ticked by everyone else in the room came to realise that although he was awake he was not entirely  _there._ He looked wrong; his eyes were vacant, empty and fearful like a caged animal.

Then the other shoe dropped.

He wasn't in Hell anymore, but he still felt like that same Dean that was hacking into the screaming woman only moments earlier. He looked down at his arm, the pulsing red scar that marked his impending evil, and then looked down at the blade, which was gripped in his hand. Faces appeared before him, people he didn't know, they were crying just for looking at him. Then he saw  _Sam,_ he was leaning towards him with his hands in a position of surrender. Sam was afraid.

"Get away from me!" Dean shouted. He was now standing on the bed with the IV pole in his hand while a team of nurses, doctors and orderlies looked up at him terrified.

"I'll kill you all" he shouted more as a warning than a threat, "GET AWAY FROM ME!"

"Dean! Please stop!" Sam shouted.

 _"Dean! Please stop!"_ he heard Sam shout. He thought of Sam telling him to drop the blade last time and cringed at the desperation in Sam's voice.

Alistair's sticky voice licked his ears, " _What did you expect Dean?"_ he gestured to the blade,  _"You were weak before."_

Dean swung around away from the on looking crowd and slashed the IV pole at an invisible perpetrator.

"You don't want this fight, not now," he growled at the invisible person.

"Dean! Who are you talking to? There's no one there," Sam shouted. The doctors, who had previously been concerned about the safety of dragging Dean from his standing position on top of the bed, were now conferring about just yanking him down regardless. Dean swung the IV pole again, growling profanities and swearing that he wasn't weak and that he wasn't evil, screaming at Sam to back off with eyes that spoke of an immense fear about his ability to control his actions, fear about hurting Sam.  _Just like I always do,_  Dean thought.

Hands were grasping at him, pulling him down. Someone was pulling the blade straight out of his hand.  _Sammy._ He was looking up at him with his desperate eyes, gently prying the blade from his closed fist,  _It's okay Dean, it's okay, I'm here, I'm gonna help you,_ Sam was saying.

Everything stopped.

Dean let out a weary laugh of realisation and relief, "I know you will Sammy."

Prick to the thigh, blackness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Heyy everyone, I just had to watch tonights episode (9x18) before posting, not that there are any spoilers in this chapter at all - I had written it already but I wanted to check my psychoanalysis (lol) was still on point - so hopefully it is :/
> 
> A little bit of comfort in this one, but I am planning much, much more hurt to come, so no worries to those lovely cruel ones who commented on the last chapters wanting more :) enjoyyyy x

The doctors looked concerned.

“What the fuck was that?” Sam shouted, forcing them to break up their conversation, which Sam assumed was over anyway by their nodding heads and the agreement in their expressions.

“What just happened?” Sam asked again.

“Your brother’s withdrawal symptoms are quite severe I’m afraid,” Doctor Epstein shook his head and sighed, “about one to five days after the last drink, alcoholics can suffer from what is known as Delirium Tremens, which mainly includes severe delirium, delusions and hallucinations… but there is also the risk of hypertension, tachycardia and sudden death from arrhythmias,” doctor said, Sam looked horrified, “it’s ok, we just have to monitor him… we will give him a high dose of diazepam and haloperidol and he will need to have a sitter at night as it can get worse at that time… hopefully the drugs will prevent anything further happening, but just in case…”

Sam looked over at Dean who had been knocked into a dead sleep, and nodded.

“Ok, I’ll sit with him,” he said.

“Sam, we have people who can do that… you should get some sleep,” the doctor said gently.

“No, I can’t” Sam whispered.

 

The night was too long and the chair was uncomfortable but Sam’s thoughts kept him wide awake. Sam always thought Dean looked so weird in drug induced sleep, like he was totally vulnerable. Vulnerability didn’t suit Dean’s face, although in truth, it was almost always there behind a layer of self-protective bravado. The fact that Dean was almost entirely motionless in his sleep, for the first time in years, indicated that he was _seriously_ knocked out. Sam looked around the room as if to see if anyone was watching (even though they were alone) and then reached out and took Dean’s hand in his. It wasn’t that weird really, he realized, to want to hold a family members hand as they lay before you in a hospital bed. But recently, familial intimacy between them often fell by the way side and was replaced by soldier-like seriousness. The moment felt uncomfortably vulnerable on both their parts, but Sam held it nonetheless.

 

Dean woke before Sam the next morning with Sam’s hand still grasped around his. He stared at it for a moment and then gently pried them apart. His own hands were still showing an obvious tremor, but it had now progressed from shuddering to weird spasmodic jerks. He automatically patted his breast where his flask was normally pocketed. He cursed himself out loud when he realized that he was dressed in a hospital gown and didn’t have his flask on him. He was glad Sam didn’t see that. _You’re god damn pathetic._ He was still somewhat disoriented so it took a number of minutes for his memories and thoughts to arrange themselves into an understandable order. Once bits of the night before started to return to his memory he ground his teeth and rubbed his jerky hand over his face with embarrassment. The hallucination itself had been disturbing enough as it was, but the way he must have been acting outwardly was even more disturbing. The idea of himself carrying on like a lunatic refreshed him with a brand new wave of horror. The drugs were wearing off and he was starting to feel like he was breathing through at plastic bag again. _No way are you going to have an anxiety attack Dean, calm the hell down,_ he told himself. He remembered the PTSD anxiety attacks that Lisa had helped him through while he was with her, and whilst her comfort was a good memory, the panic attacks were not. The initial panic caused by thinking of what he must have looked like last night was then doubled by memories of the hallucination itself.

‘ _CALM DOWN!’_ he told himself again, ‘ _Sam’s gonna wake up’._

The heart monitors’ beeping increased slightly, its piercing tone scraping his ear drums out hollow. As predicted Sam woke up with a start.

“Dean? Are you ok?” he croaked.

“Uh yeah, yeah no problem Sammy, just uh feeling a bit… shit,” Dean stammered.

“Doctor!” Sam shouted, also pressing the nurse call button for good measure.

“Oh for god’s sake Sam, please,” Dean ground out against the shaking.

Moment’s later Doctor Epstein was in the room smiling his dimpled smile, trying to make everyone feel like things were ok.

“Morning Dean,” he said, “How are you feeling?”

“Like 50 shades of ground shit,” he said. A nurse came in silently, to refill Dean’s IV bag with more drugs.

“That’s ok, that’s expected… you may feel pretty shitty for some days coming” he grimaced sympathetically, “do you remember anything about last night Dean?”

Dean cleared his throat, he didn’t like the doctors slightly condescending tone, as though he was speaking to a mental patient, “uh yeah, a bit I guess” he said.

“Ok, well after that incident we’ve put you on diazepam and haloperidol to help with the autonomic hyperactivity,” he gestured to the IV bag, “once we’ve got you all hooked up again it should help with the anxiety and agitation and prevent further hallucinations.”

“When will this be over?” Sam asked the doctor. Dean grimaced at Sam’s pained expression. He looked so stressed.

“Well the acute symptoms should start clearing up anywhere over the next couple of days,” the doctor said, “but then I want to talk about you going into a treatment facility Dean” his tone turned serious, “this is not a time to pussy foot around ok?” he gave a solemn nod and exited the room.

 

Sam and Dean sat in silence. Dean peered at Sam without turning his head, fearful of _really_ seeing his brothers’ face. He didn’t know if he could stand seeing the annoyance, the anger, and the _pity_ that would no doubt be there.

“Sam… you don’t have to be here, you know… this isn’t…work or whatever… and I know you want to keep things ‘strictly business’ so why don’t you just go back to the bunker and keep researchin’… I’m sure the demons aren’t waiting for me to get out of here,” he ground out.

The silence was deafening in the wake of his words.

“What?” Sam said finally, “did you seriously just say that?” he lent back and ran his fingers through his hair in disbelief,  “Oh my god, you really are the king of avoidance did you know that? You want me to leave so I won’t see you like this, so I won’t ask you questions, so you won’t have to deal with whatever it is that’s getting at you….” He paused “Stop being such a baby”

“Wow harsh…”

“I’m… I’m not trying to be harsh Dean,” Sam puffed. After a moment of scrubbing his hand over his eyes he pushed out, “To be honest… I feel like some of this is my fault… I’ve been pushing you away because I was angry with you for what you did, and so I said some things that I didn’t mean… the thing is I just wanted you to _understand_ how angry at you I was,” his voice wavered, “but these past few days… I realized how easily I could lose you and I…” he cleared his throat to force back tears, “uh what I’m trying to say is that I’m here for you, and I’m sorry…I’m _really_ sorry about everything…”

Dean nodded, “yeah me too…”

Tears were threatening to make a starring appearance in the scene, so the both of them cleared their throats loudly.

“Uh so… what the doctor said about rehab…” Sam said, lowering his tone a few octaves.

“No. No fucking way, Sam… We don’t have time for that,” Dean said.

“Well then, what are we going to do about all this, Dean?” Sam said, they both knew that Dean couldn’t just keep ‘handling’ things alone. Dean smiled a little when he noticed Sam said ‘we.’

“I don’t know…” Dean paused and then off Sam’s skeptical expression he shouted, “I’ll be _fine!_ I _am_ fine in fact… this is just a… a blip”

“A blip?” Sam mocked, “You jumped up on the bed last night waving around an IV pole against invisible attackers with you bare butt hanging out the back of your gown, you freak” he laughed.

“Hmm yeah…” Dean considered, “Nah it’ll be fine” he said flippantly. The truth was, he didn’t think it would be fine at all and that made him scared.

“What did you see last night by the way? Who were you talking to?” Sam asked, hesitantly. Deans frown deepened. He saw himself holding Cain’s blade, he felt the evil pulsing through him, intoxicating him with poison, a heady brew of irresistible power, which made him jerk with fear again. The hallucination was etched into his memory now, and the realness of that made it feel like both a memory and a prediction of the future.

“Uh, you know, the usual” Dean coughed.

Sam frowned and changed the subject, “Dean, really you can’t joke around with this… if you don’t keep off the booze you’re going to get really sick… and if you’re sick you’ll be useless,” Sam said. It sounded cold to say he’d be useless but he knew that it would get Dean concerned enough to actually spark some motivation to quit. “How are you going to do that? You need to be on medication or something and go to AA and all that… stuff.”

Dean scoffed. The idea of him hunting down a Knight of Hell and then popping into an AA meeting afterwards was comical at best.

“Yeah, right…” he laughed, “Listen Sam, as soon as we get outta here I promise I’m gonna keep off the booze but we have a much more pressing issue here in the form of Abaddon” Dean rubbed his arm, absent mindedly.

“Are you ok?” Sam gestured to the rubbing.

“What? Uh yeah, I’m fine” Dean snapped.

“Dean, you know that once we find her you’re going to have to use the blade again right? Are you ready for that?” Sam left the words that both of them were thinking unsaid; that, if _this_ was hard, imagine how hard resisting the pull of the blade will be. Imagine how bad the ‘withdrawals’ will be. Dean’s mortality was flashing like a neon sign.

Dean frowned; the real problem was that he didn’t really care.

 

Later that evening, on the way back to Dean’s room from the coffee machine, the doctor pulled Sam aside.

“I wanted to talk to you, before Dean… to avoid upsetting him,” the doctor began, “Now that he is lucid again it is hospital protocol that I get a psych consult down to talk to him…”

“Yeah he is _not_ going to like that at all,” Sam said.

“I didn’t think so, that’s why I wanted to talk to you first…” the doctor said, “Many people who drink to excess suffer from mental illnesses like depression, post traumatic stress, anxiety… from what I’ve observed of Dean over the past two admissions I think he is certainly suffering from clinical depression at least… probably PTSD as well, but I can’t be sure about that one without talking to him”

Sam stared at the doctor, unsure of what to say. He knew that Dean would definitely fit the criteria for both diagnoses, but then again their lives were not exactly covered in the DSM.

“Have you noticed mood problems with your brother? I only ask because the risk of extreme irritability, anger and suicide in alcoholic patients with depression doubles after and during withdrawal…”

“He’s fine” Sam snapped. As he said it, all he could picture were Dean’s blank stares, the monosyllabic grunting, the not eating, not sleeping, the drinking, not to mention the many accounts of suicidal recklessness. Dean was _not_ fine and Sam had no idea how Dean was going to deal with everything heading towards him.

Sam sighed, “I’m going to take him home as soon as possible… I’ll look after him there”

The doctor looked exasperated, he sighed, “Okay, but I have to warn you, it could get bad… ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be continued....


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: sorry this took a while to update! This chapter DOES contain spoilers for season 9 Episode 18 (Meta Fiction) – I decided to work it into this section of my fic as though the previous four chapters occurred between episode 17 and episode 18 and then this chapter happens during/after episode 18. So there are some direct quotes from episode 18.
> 
> I just couldn't help myself, Dean just looked sooo depressed and exhausted in this episode! - perfect H/C fodder for me ;) Let me know how you think its going x

Dean let the water run over his shoulders, heating his sore muscles which were still adjusting to being upright instead of laying prostrate in a hospital bed. The water pressure and heat of the shower in the bunker was a godsend, so he let it run until the entire bathroom was thick with steam. He ran his hands over his face, and relished the sensation of water running through his hair. Being back at the bunker felt weird. In fact everything felt pretty weird. The ghosts of bad memories and temptation were now haunting the halls. And it was strange going back to their ordinary life, which was nothing close to ordinary. The doctor had piled him up with AA booklets, contact numbers for addiction counsellors and 'recovery' information, which Dean had promptly thrown into a bin (and which Sam had picked out of the bin, again). He had been told to expect insomnia, nightmares, shakiness, mood swings, irritability, craving… blah, blah, sounds like a regular day, he told himself. But then again, on a regular day he had alcohol to comfort him. If he was honest, he was stressed to the bone and exhausted as all hell.

"Reduce stress," one of the pamphlets said. That's when he had thrown it out. 'Reduce stress? Yeah that sounds great, I'll just tell the world to stop ending.

Dean got out of the shower and wiped his hand across the fogged up mirror. He stared at himself and realized why everyone could always tell how much he hated himself; his face was etched with a deep despondency, like a billboard advertising exhaustion and self-loathing. No one hates you more than you. He looked down at his arm and ran his finger across the raised mark. As his breath sped up, he clutched the sink and bowed his head. Stop it, he whispered to himself.

While Dean was showering, Sam busied himself running another final check for hidden alcohol. He had come home earlier to clear out every last bottle before bringing Dean back from hospital, but he now felt paranoid that he'd missed one. He had spent most of the morning and the previous evening reading through all the pamphlets that Dean had thrown out, making sure he knew what to expect. But even after reading through every last one of them multiple times, he still wasn't sure he knew what to expect…. and the look that had been adorning Dean's face since they left the hospital was making Sam nervy. I have to warn you… it could get bad… the doctors words were on repeat in Sam's mind.

When they had arrived back at the bunker earlier, Dean had just stood static at the base of the staircase, staring around as though he could tell that Sam had done a frantic alcohol purge already. He looked a bit ashamed even.

"Don't worry, I cleaned everything out… and it's no alcohol for me either by the way. The information says that when living with someone in recovery, its important that family members also maintain a sober lifestyle," Sam said.

"Yeah thanks for the quote there Doctor Phil" Dean muttered.

Sam put his bag down on the table and turned to face Dean, "Ok don't get mad but…" he hesitated, "…I'm gonna call around for an addiction counsellor too"

"What?" Dean threw his bag down on the table next to Sam.

"You aren't going to get better without support, you need to learn new ways of dealing with stress and how to control triggers and cravings"

"Oh Jesus Sam! Stop quoting the goddamn AA Bible, you sound like an asshole"

"Dean, I am not joking around with this, seriously" Sam growled, pointing his finger, "I backed you up when the doctor said you needed to go to rehab, I even backed you up when he told me he was getting a psych consult – and when I said I would take you home, you promised me you would fight me on this"

Dean considered Sam's words; his discomfort was clear by his grinding teeth.

After a moment he spat out, "How would an addiction counselor even work though, huh? I can't exactly tell them what's going on with me, CAN I?" Dean got progressively irritated as he spoke, reaching a deep shout by the end of his sentence.

"You're just going to have to tell them that you're in the FBI or something and so you can't discuss your work" Sam shouted back, "there is just going to be some stuff that you'll have to change the facts around a little… the main thing is you need someone to support you in recovery"

"Yeah, and here I thought that was going to be you…." Dean growled, he started pacing absent minded, "but apparently I have been palmed off to some punk with a degree and a box of tissues…" he was wringing his hands, "no thanks Sam, I can manage"

Sam frowned.

Dean realized he had been pacing and stopped himself. He looked at Sam, trying to gage how pathetic he must look to him.

He cleared his throat and said, "Anyway… let's get to researching, I'm sure Abaddon hasn't slowed down to wait for me"

"Wait, what? Uh I…" Sam stuttered, "We just got back? We need to talk about…"

Dean interrupted, "Come on, Sam… what I need is a distraction, and you know it"

Sam made a skeptical noise.

"Sam I'm not kidding, if I don't get something to do right now I am going to explode, I swear" Dean shouted.

"Ok calm down" Sam cooed. Dean looked at him with an angry glare that read, shut the fuck up, I AM CALM!

"Why don't I make us some food first? We can talk about how we're going to approach your recovery and then maybe we can talk about work…" Sam said, "its really important that you eat properly now Dean, nutrition is a big part of the treatment for liver problems"

"Yeah, yeah I read the fucking brochure!" Dean shouted. He felt like couldn't control the volume or irritation in his voice, "I'm not hungry, I want to work Sam, stop treating me like I'm made of glass!" He had started pacing again. This time he could feel his eyes searching the vicinity for signs of alcohol of their own accord and despite logic.

"Dean, you've got to calm down, ok?" Sam reached out to touch Dean's arm, "it's just the withdrawals."

"I AM FUCKING CALM! IF YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN ONE MORE TIME I'M GONNA START THROWING PUNCHES," He shouted.

Sam looked at him smugly, like yeah, that was real 'calm' of you.

Dean closed his eyes for a second to collect himself and then started again much quieter; "Please Sam?… no harm in calling around, seeing if anything has happened…" Dean said, he could tell he hadn't quite cracked him yet, so he brought out the big guns, "…We have to and you know it"

Sam let out a long weary sigh, "yeah ok, fine" he ground out, but Dean was right; they did have to.

"Ok good, I'm gonna shower first, get all that hospital stink off me…" Dean smirked, "You make some calls, see if anyone knows anything, or if anything happened the past few days"

Sam nodded, "Ok… are you sure? I mean… Are you ok?"

Dean pouted "just an ordinary shower man, I'm not gonna hose myself down with vodka ok?" he said even though he knew that's not what Sam was talking about, "Just… make the calls"

Sam watched Dean leave the room and restrained himself from following him to the bathroom door to make sure he was ok. He knew that for this to go smoothly he needed to allow Dean to keep his dignity. So he opened his phone and did what Dean said.

Sam hung up yet another phone call, to yet another hunter who had no useful Intel.

"Anything?" Dean said as he entered the room, now clean and redressed but still looking like he was fighting a battle within himself.

"Yeah a dozen demon related cases, people without souls acting out, but…"

"But no Abaddon" Dean said.

"Yeah its like she's vanished"

"We just gotta keep digging…" Dean muttered, touching his arm absent-mindedly.

"You ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine… let's get to work" Dean growled.

Every time his arm throbbed, a little voice in his head told him, 'You've been weak before' and a wave of panic would flush through him reminding him how little control over his own life he had always felt. Even the darkness inside him that had been uncovered in Hell, was beginning to wiggle free of his control, and he no longer had alcohol to numb the concern. He could feel his emotions, his anger, struggling to get free like a wild horse fighting manically to become unbridled. And Sam wouldn't stop fucking eyeing him like he was going to break and it was driving him crazy. The only way he was going to stay sober was through distraction and will power Dean decided, and he didn't know how much of the latter he had anymore, so distraction was doubly important.

Sam made them steak and salas after a couple unfruitful hours of research. He plunked the plates on to the table, between the scattered pieces of paper and books.

"Eat it" Sam said, "and this time I'm watching you" he smirked teasingly, hoping that he could veil his babying under the guise of familiar brotherly banter.

"I was gonna eat it anyway, you ass" Dean said, "mmm steak" he chanted as he sliced into the thick slab. Sam sat across the table from Dean, just like they had only a few days ago when Sam had first pointed out Dean's shaking hands. His smile fell to a frown when he noticed the layer of grimy sweat that was making Dean's neck shiny. And he was normally the sweaty one.

"So about your recovery plan…" Sam started

Dean cut him off, "So uh while you being Martha Stewart I got a bunch of security camera footage, weather forecasts, news reports, that kinda stuff" Dean muttered through a mouthful, "I sticky-noted the hell out of the map on the other table but it all seems…."

"Insignificant?" Sam sighed, feeling defeated.

"Yeah, well as far as it goes… nothing yet worth acting on" Dean said.

Sam hesitated for a moment, "Maybe it's a good thing… maybe we have some time to readjust… time to talk about what you need to do to get better - " he was cut off again by the sound of his phone ringing from the other room. It was Castiel.

"Gadreel? Gadreel is working for Metatron" Sam spat out over the phone, "for how long?"

Sam was fucking pissed off… just when he thought they might get a break. He knew that this meant they were not going to get the down time he wanted for Dean and instead they were about to go chasing after Gadreel. Reduce stress, the pamphlet said, yeah right.

"So Metatron made Gadreel kill Kevin?" Dean growled. Before even hearing the answer he knew he had a new anger to focus on. Sam lent his hands on the table and breathed sharply, he was so fucking annoyed… there was just too much to be annoyed at; he wasn't sure if he was more angry at Gadreel or the fact that there was always something that would stop Dean from looking after himself OR the fact that the news of Gadreel was doing a pretty good job of distracting his concern from Dean's current condition.

"It would explain a lot…and there've been no new prophets, which Metatron could have fixed to his advantage" Castiel said.

"And Gadreel said that angels are returning to heaven? How? I thought the spell was irreversible," Dean noted.

"That's what Crowley said," Sam whispered to Dean before continuing into the phone, "Look, lets just find Gadreel… and beat some answers out of him…" he spat. Sam was successfully distracted. That meant no more talking about addiction counselors and AA. Dean had to stop himself from smirking with relief. Nothing made him more uncomfortable than feeling as though he was a burden. He felt stupid and weak and pathetic and needy, and it made him light up with shame and self-loathing. He just wanted to pretend that none of this ever happened and just get back to business.

But then again, addicts don't tend to know whats best for them...


	6. Chapter 6

Sam's fist slammed against Gadreel's solid cheek. They had followed him to Ogden, Utah off Castiel's intel and trapped him in the back of an abandoned factory. The whole drive to Utah, Sam had been fuming with rage, just waiting to see the angel face to face. But now he was staring down at Gadreel tied to a chair in the body of some poor man, and it was not what he expected.

"If this is like looking into a fun house mirror for me, I cannot imagine what it is like for you" Gadreel taunted Sam. Sam grimaced, feeling slightly violated.

"How long have you been working for Metatron?" Sam shouted.

"I will not talk, you cannot make me… I have been in you Sam Winchester, you're inside reek of shame and weakness" Gadreel replied. Sam crumpled with anger as he punched Gadreel in the face, the last thing Sam needed right now was to be called weak. With Dean struggling, the pressure was on him to be stronger than ever. He felt like letting out all the pent up rage he had burning in his stomach, on Gadreel's stupid smug face. Sam didn't even realise how angry he was until now.

"Sam, Sam, SAM! Sam, come here, come on," Dean ushered him away from his intended punching bag, towards a dark corner.

Dean told him to go find Cas instead of continuing with Gadreel.

"You're too close to this man"

"What and you're not?" Sam gave him a warning glare.

"We're not at this 5 minutes and you're already going Liam Neeson on his ass… I got this" Dean said. Sam knew he was right but he didn't want to leave him alone. He hesitated.

But he knew that the job came first.

So he left.

"So he acts tough and you show kindness? Is that how this works?" Gadreel spat. Dean smiled, "No, see I don't care whether you talk, you're gonna pay for what you did to him, and Kevin," a cruel smile slunk onto his face as he gripped the angel blade in his hand. He felt the power surge through him again; it was getting darker, stronger. He ran the point of the blade along Gadreel's collarbone as he screamed in pain. Dean ground his teeth against the desire to slice him into tiny pieces.

Gadreel seemed to size him up with one pointed gaze, "All your talk, all your bluster, you think you're invincible… the two of you against the world right?" Gadreel said.

"Damn straight!" Dean tried to sound as certain as he usually did but instead it came out forced and broken.

"You really think Sam would do anything for you?"

"Oh I know he would" Dean walked towards Gadreel slowly.

"I've been in your brothers body Dean, he would not trade his life for yours"

"Well thanks for the rerun pal, Sam's already told me all that crap, hell he told me worse," Dean shouted again. He tried his best to sound scary and self-assured but it was coming out so forced, straining against everything in his head telling him Gadreel was right.

"He told you that he's always felt that way? That he thinks you're just a scared little boy who's afraid to be on his own, because daddy never loved him enough," Gadreel taunted. Dean nodded his head in recognition. Hearing those things out loud made his inside feel hollowed out. Those were the things that he buried deep, deep down and prayed every day no one else knew. Gadreel confirming that Sam had noticed those things too just solidified the thoughts in Dean's mind further, verifying and justifying them, making it harder to deny them to himself.

"…and he's right isn't he, right to think that you are a coward? a sad, clingy, needy…" Dean thought of himself lying in a hospital bed, a pitiful alcoholic, Sam sitting beside the bed, eyes black with worry. He swung his fist and smashed Gadreel's cheek.

"Keep it up!" Dean shouted.

"…Pathetic, bottom feeder who cannot even take care of himself, who would rather drag everyone through the mud than be alone! Who would rather let everyone around him DIE!"

Every word dug deeper, needling into Dean's psyche. Gadreel was saying the same things that Dean told himself, day in and day out. Pathetic alcoholic, needy, clingy, sad, unable to deal with life, worn out husk, cannot even take care of himself… he thought of the way Sam watched him with worry for years and years, he thought of Sam's voice, shrill with fear as he carried him to hospital, his face darkening with concern as Dean lay pitifully on the bed. He thought of Sam trying dutifully to help him, forcing him to eat, asking him if he was Ok. He thought of himself throwing up his stomach lining, failing to resist the desire, scrambling to find a bottle of Jack Daniels. He thought of himself saying yes to Alistair, he thought of himself picking up the blade. He thought of Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Cas, Ash, Dad, Sam, all the innocent people who had been dragged into his field of destruction.

He let out one sharp breath and lunged towards Gadreel with the angel blade held out to kill.

But an inch before its sharp point reached Gadreel's waiting body, he stopped cold.

"NO, DO IT! DO IT! KILL ME!" Gadreel screamed into his face.

Dean lowered the blade and with a sense of realization he said, "ohh you'd like that wouldn't you, that's what that whole speech was about… you're not afraid to die are you? You're afraid to be left in these chains forever... well you can stay here and rot, you son of a bitch"

Gadreel trembled with shock as he watched Dean leave the room.

Dean stamped into the grimy bathroom behind the far wall. The stench of mould and disused plumbing wafted through the stagnant air, it was not a pleasant smell, but not an unfamiliar one either. Dean pulled out his phone and checked to see if he had any messages…none. He dropped the angel blade in the sink and wiped his hand across the filthy mirror. His downcast and haggard face stared back at him, a perfect reflection of the pain that was pumping through him. _If this is like looking into a fun house mirror for me, I cannot imagine what it is like for you._ Perhaps it wasn't just Sam Gadreel had been taunting. Gadreel wasn't afraid to die, he was afraid to rot here. His stomach felt uneasy and he could feel the jittery anger getting stronger. He bent over and washed his face in the dirty water. He rose to look back in the mirror hesitantly, like he didn't want to see the fun house mirror again. He looked down at his arm. Suddenly an unstoppable rage poured into his veins, galvanizing his desire to let out the darkness... He wished he could just quit fighting against it... Maybe he _didn't_ need to fight it. He could remember how good it felt in Hell, to put all the pain and anger onto those screaming souls. He could almost feel the blade in his hand, dripping blood...

 

Gadreel was shocked to see him again, "Back again, so soon?" he said with a wary glare. As soon as Dean looked up at him and gave a demented, cruel smile, Gadreel knew that he'd cracked.

"You know what?" Dean shouted, swinging his fist and smashing Gadreel in the jaw, "forget about rotting," he swung again with his left hand and then again with his right. Gadreel looked genuinely terrified. But it wasn't the prospect of violence that was frightening, it was Dean's darkened, empty face that made his stomach drop. Dean swung at him again, and again and again. His mouth contorted into a snarl and his fist became bloody and cracked.

"Keep going! All you are doing is making it worse for yourself!" Gadreel spluttered, blood drooling from his mouth. Dean pulled out the angel blade and sliced Gadreel's quivering flesh. The sound of deep, blood curdling screams echoed from Gadreel's mouth and bounced through the eerie factory. Dean's breath was quickening. His eyes were black and hollow as he sliced and sliced and sliced at Gadreel, a wavering sneer creeping onto his face as he relished the sounds he could get him to make. He dropped the blade again and swung down his fists like meat cleavers against Gadreel's flesh, which was getting paler and paler behind the blood. Dean didn't notice his own shouting and grunting beneath Gadreel's screams, both their cries ringing horrifically in his ears. His punching was getting more and more manic and feverish, his breath heaving out grinding growls as he tried to keep up with his action. He could no longer control himself. He just kept beating him, again and again. Just when it seemed Gadreel was close to passing out, Dean lifted him by the shirt and tossed him across the room kicking him in the gut. Dean's breath was going at warp speed, his chest heaving up and down as he kicked Gadreel across the room and shoved him against the mechanical equipment that scattered the empty factory. At some point they had reached the back wall. Dean threw Gadreel against the it; he heard something crack on impact. Gadreel slid down the wall. Dean was baring his teeth like a wild animal, his eyes blank with rage. The mark on his arm was pulsing energetically… as though it was _happy._

Dean pulled out his knife. He bent down and held it against Gadreel's throat, "You wanted to die, didn't you?" he snarled.

"Yes, but not as much as you" Gadreel whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for S9 E18 Metafiction - Including direct usage of dialogue

Dean wasn’t picking up his phone. Sam once again reached his voice mail and cursed under his breath, chucking the phone down on the seat beside him.

 _‘I shouldn’t have left him alone,’_ Sam thought. For some reason, he wondered if he was going to find his brother still with Gadreel or whether he would be drunk out of his mind somewhere in a gutter instead.

Sam powered through the factory towards the room where he had last seen Gadreel tied to a chair and trapped. But it was empty. He stared at the chair for a second, noting the flecks of blood splattered around it.

“ _Dean?”_ he shouted, continuing the scan the room, _fuck, fuck, fuck._

He saw a figure slumped against the far wall. He was slightly obscured by factory equipment and his face hidden by his bowed head, but nonetheless Sam knew who it was.

“Dean!” he shouted, rushing towards the figure. Dean looked injured… or dead. Sam pushed back the thoughts.

As he approached, he thanked god when Dean slowly looked up and met his eyes.

“Hey… Are you ok!?” Sam said, his tone stressed and uneasy. He scanned over his brother checking for any signs of injury. He noticed Dean’s knuckles were inflamed and bloody, but aside from that he didn’t look hurt. The only truly concerning thing was the look on Dean’s face.

“Yeah, you gotta stop asking me that” Dean murmured. 

“ho- Ww-what did you?” Sam garbled, looking across at Gadreel’s seemingly lifeless body, slumped on the floor on its side, covered in blood and gashes. 

“He won’t talk” Dean said.

“I figured” Sam held his gaze on Dean, noticing how strange his voice sounded. Dean looked so confused and delirious, as though he had gone into an altered state and had just woken from it. It reminded him of the night at the hospital but this time it was like… withdrawals from violence. 

“He wanted to die” Dean babbled, looking up at him. Sam’s breath hitched. He had never seen Dean look so blank.

“…and I was gonna kill him I was, but then I stopped because I know we need him to talk” Dean continued as though he was junkie explaining a relapse. Sam wasn’t quite sure why Dean was babbling and explaining himself like he was. He still seemed like he was not quite ‘back’ yet from wherever he had been, some state of delirium no doubt. But in this tiny window of ‘unguarded’ Dean, Sam could see the way the Dean’s brain worked, constantly rationalizing his actions, trying to keep his sense of self afloat against the rip tide of torment and tragedy.

But Sam had to put all that concern aside, as Cas’s life was hanging in the balance.

Sam spat out what he needed to say, “Metatron has Cas.”

Deans face dropped with peculiar sadness, as though he couldn’t keep up with how quickly everything in his life always turned to crap.

Looking towards Gadreel Sam continued, “he’s offering up a trade,”

 

* * *

 

 In a motel parking lot the trade was made. Cas was shoved across to Dean and Sam, while Gadreel was bundled out of the trunk of the Impala and taken by Metatron’s minions. They stood in static anger, staring at Metatron’s stupid smug face while he rattled on about something foreboding. Dean had come back into himself on the drive over there and was now back to his usual fierce, focused stare. When things like this happened it was pretty easy to ignore absolutely everything else in your life, the adrenalin gives you laser focus.

 

After Metatron thwarted their attempts to capture him and left with an ominous cackle denoting what was to come, Dean sighed and asked, “Somebody wanna tell me what the hell is going on here,”

“Metatron is trying to play god,” Cas informed him

“ _Play_ god? Cas, he erased angel warding, he friggin’ blew out angel fire… He _is_ god… he’s powering up with the angel tablet… how the hell are we supposed to stop this guy?” Sam sighed.

Vague sets of plans were made involving heavy use of Star war metaphors as the night fell around them. Dean sighed ignoring the obvious and ever present sense that they would never catch a break.

“Sure you’re alright?” he asked Cas.

“ _Yes_ , are you? There’s something different about you” Cas said.

Dean tried for his best poker face, but he couldn’t take Cas’s sincere look of concern, “I’m fine,” he said patting Cas’s shoulder and attempting to escape.

But Cas wasn’t going to let him get away that easy. He shot out his hand, capturing Dean’s forearm like a vice. Dean looked at his friends face waiting for the expression of disappointment that he expected.

Cas yanked down his sleeve like a family member looking for track marks on a loved one, “What have you done?” Cas barked. _Ah, there it is._

“It’s a means to an end” Dean snapped, yanking his arm away from Cas’s grip. 

“ _Damn it_ Dean” Cas said with an air of helplessness.

Dean’s inability to listen to reason or admit he has a problem was illuminated across his defensive face as he turned to the Impala and barked, “Look, you find heaven you drop a dime, in the meantime I’ve got a knight to kill.”

 

Sam shut his eyes at the sound of the car door slamming and then shared a look of hopeless concern with Cas.

“Be safe out there,” Sam muttered pointlessly.

“You too…” Cas replied his expressions furrowed in fretfulness, “And Sam, you keep an eye on him.”

 

 

Sam watched Dean as they drove back towards the bunker, Dean’s bloody knuckles were going white with the death grip he had on the steering wheel.

“Dean?” he attempted, “I’m worried about you”

“Well, don’t be” Dean spat back.

As they drove, Sam ran his eyes along his brother’s war worn face and frowned. Yes, Dean _had_ always had that edge of violence in him but there had also always been a particular softness floating under its surface. Sam couldn’t see that anymore. When Sam had been attacked by a demon whilst saving their dad from that apartment building (‘Sunrise’ as he recalled), Dean had shot the demon right in the head with the Colt to save him. And Sam could remember the way Dean had looked afterwards, his face pale with concern about the fact he had killed the man the demon was riding. He remembered Dean saying that he was disturbed that he ‘didn’t even flinch.’ Sam wondered where that concern had gone. He looked at his brother now and thought of all the careless killings, the cruel snarls, the _enjoyment_ he seemed to be getting from it. Sam cleared his throat against his quiet, angry tears. The brother who had cared for him all these years, the person who raised him, who came to see his school plays, packed his lunches, helped him talk to girls, looked after him when he was sick, the brother who had done nothing but sacrifice himself for the people he loves was twisted beyond recognition into this artifact of cruelty. Dean wouldn’t listen to what anyone was saying anymore, he had no ability to understand their worries because his focus had become pinpointed to a singular thing; the blade. He was rationalizing – like all addicts do. He was telling himself it was a ‘means to an end’, but now Sam wondered if that was the whole truth.

 

“Maybe I should see if I can find that addiction counselor now…” Sam said hesitantly.

“Don’t worry about the booze Sammy,” Dean growled.

“Yeah… I’m not,” Sam whispered.

The shell that had always protected Dean’s soft center was now a thick callous, but Sam was sure that is was still penetrable.  It _had_ to be.

  

As soon as they parked the Impala in the garage, Dean was out like a shot, slamming the door behind him. Sam followed as Dean stamped through the hallways. He headed straight for the bathroom without saying a word.

“Dean?” Sam called out after him.

 

Dean locked the bathroom door behind him.

 

He started pacing and wringing his hands, muttering under his breath. His chest was heaving. _Stop, stop, stop,_ he muttered. His hand was burning with pain that was shooting right up to his shoulder blade. The pain, a ghost of frantic fists beating Gadreel’s vessel, again and again, bloody contact, smashing human tissue, _human._ Gadreel’s voice was taunting him. His capacity to hurt and take pleasure in inflicting pain, the _darkness_ he was always fighting in himself was bubbling over, slashing through him. It was a burning acid cloud. He kept pacing. He could see Gadreel’s face slowly becoming obscured by the blood pouring from the thin veil of flesh that covers the skull. Dean knew exactly what was under that layer of flesh, he had seen it and felt it peeled back too many times. He could still feel the action of his fists swinging and meeting Gadreel’s body like hammers, but now the face he was seeing was not Gadreel’s, it was Sam’s. He grabbed at his short hair and bashed one fist against the side of his head, _no, no, no._ The mark wasn’t _turning_ him evil, he thought… No, it was just _letting out_ the darkness that Hell had awoken in him years ago and which had never been put away or dealt with since. It was asking him to embrace the part of him that he had spent his life fighting against. He kept pacing, shaking his head. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and finally did what he had wanted to do every time he saw his face reflected back at him. He slammed his fist into the glass letting it shatter his reflection into the hundreds of tiny pieces that he had been reduced to.

 

A deafening silence followed the smash of the glass. After a moment he gave a broken laugh and coughed out a dry angry growl like a wounded dog. With a surge of rage he wound himself upwards and threw his bloody fist at the mirror again and again and again. The glass was rippling out around the point of contact with his fist like a bloody flower. He was looking into the fun house mirror… _You aren’t afraid to die, you are afraid to rot here_ …

 

He pulled the broken mirror from the wall and smashed it into the bath, hyperventilating beneath the sound of the smash. He swung around and kicked over anything lose, scattering things all over the floor. His chest was rising and falling as he gasped for breath. He ripped the cabinet door from its hinges and chucked it at the wall. He stood in the destruction gagging and dry retching. _You wanted to die didn’t you? Yes but not as much as you… not as much as you, not as much as you, NOT AS MUCH AS YOU!_ There wasn’t anything left to destroy in the bathroom so Dean moved to the wall and slid down it until he was on the floor. He could only barely hear the sound of Sam knocking at the door beneath his raging mind.  He wasn’t afraid to die, he was afraid of rotting, filling with poison, his sense of self, corroding. But when he took on the Mark it wasn’t as though he didn’t realize the consequences… so why did he do it? Because it is a ‘means to an end’, as he kept saying… but maybe that end wasn’t just killing Abaddon, maybe the end was just death, maybe the end was sending himself back to Hell where deep down he still believed he belonged.

 

His internal babble was sliced open by the sound of the door smashing down.

“Dean! Jesus! W-what happened? Oh my god” Sam dashed towards his brothers crumpled form huddled in the corner. Dean’s hands and wrists were covered in blood from the splintered glass.

And he was _laughing._

Sam wrapped his hands around Dean’s and gently moved them so he could see the damage, “you’re fingers broken,” he said.

Dean’s whole body was shaking with strange manic chuckling. Sam’s eyes widened with worry when he noticed that Dean was sobbing at the same time.

“Oh Jesus Dean” he whispered as he tried to wipe some of the blood from Dean’s hands. Sam just stared as Dean bowed his head and let tears saturate his face, wretched broken laughter and sobs escaping him.

“I’m…” Dean started, “I’m scared,” and with the word he spluttered another cry. Sam frowned, “Yeah... me too.”

Dean stared down at his bloody hands like emblems of everything he had done. He knew that he was a monster… and monsters don’t deserve to be saved.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole project has ended up basically just being a story using my meta analysis of whats happening at this point in the season so I apologise for its rambling length lol I didn't realise it was going to be this long!  
> If you got this far then thanks for reading! xx


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